Love of a Clown
by Penultimate
Summary: [Sequel to Carnival of Sins]There is something that I want to tell you about, dad, and I've wanted to tell you for a long time, only I've been afraid and I know you always tell us you don't want us to be afraid to talk to you but this is something big.


**A/N: Well, you all were just dying for John and Dean to find out about Icky, the crazy pedophilic clown. You all asked for a sequel. You all just couldn't be content with a sign of innocence raping a child, you wanted more. Well, that's just fine with us because we have nothing better to do than serve you. (It's your job to figure out whether that's sarcasm or not.) Anyway, this is, if you couldn't already tell, the sequel to 'Carnival of Sins.' It's been written by my dear friend (sakuraXkatsuya) and myself. The night Sakura and I were first toying around with this fic, we were getting little ideas should CoS ever morph into a chapter fic. However, we decided it would be best to keep it short and sweet. With the sudden uproar, however, as well as the surprising shortage of reviewers armed with pitchforks and torches, we've decided to press on a bit, just to see how it works.**

**We also have set up a very small fansite on livejournal for, if this fic goes as well as CoS went, then we are contemplating a chapter fic that will explore what affect Icky had on Sam in his more recent years. We hope to set this fic to 'Everybody Loves a Clown,' and we do believe that it will be, dare I say it, rather enjoyable considering the fact that it's based on everybody's favorite Winchester being raped by a clown (everybody's favorite, that is, unless you're a Dean fan or a John fan, or a Mary fan if you want to consider her a Winchester even though she was only one by marriage...). I'm also thinking about another one-shot to go along with this nice little string involving young Sam praying... Anyway, if you wish to encourage us with the writing of more clownish love, then please head over to livejournal and check out 'spnffwdemands'. Also, a link has been set up on my profile that should link you to the page.**

**Our demands are simple: Jared shaves and gets a new hairdresser, and this string of fanfictions has a happy ending. If our demands are not met, drastic measures shall be taken. (And we mean drastic. You've got no idea what we have in store for little Sammy...)**

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**Disclaimer: We own nothing. We used to own Icky, but we're now renting him out for cheesy X-File fics, and trying to convince him to pursue his therapy. He's a stubborn little thing, though. Never listens to a word we say...**

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_He was standing outside a scarlet red tent, staring at the wavering flap. Why was he back here? What had he come here for? He wanted to turn away, but his feet moved of their own accord, taking him into the tent. He glanced around, and everything was the same as the moment he had left it. Half of it as a makeshift dressing room, the other half a carnival in itself. He slowly moved towards the platform, which rested in the center of the tent. A spotlight was shined down on it, and everything else was darkened. As he came to a stop before the wooden pedestal, he looked at it's surface and could see the blood... his own blood that he had left there... Instinctively turning around he saw the bright twinkling eyes, the painted smile, the frizzy red hair... The voice rang out clear as a bell, as though it had been yesterday:_

_"The show must go on."_

"Sam! SAM!"

Sam Winchester sat up straight, staring around him. He was drenched in sweat, eyes wide, skin pale white. His whole body was rigid and shaking as he tried to figure out where he was. Dean Winchester sat on his bed in front of him, a mix of worry and fear covering his face as he stared down at his younger brother.

"Are you alright?" the older said quickly, nervously. Seven months ago he would have grabbed that stupid clown doll and calmed his brother with it. Of course, seven months ago his brother had thrown it out the window of the speeding Impala...

Sam did not respond. He stared down at his shaking hands, trying to clam himself. It had been seven months... why couldn't he just get over it? In a few days he would turn seven and he wanted to leave all of this behind. The memories... the pain... the guilt... the shame... All of it. He just wanted it all to go away.

"I'm fine," he mumbled, finally looking up at his brother. "I just had a bad dream."

"Yeah? Well these dreams are getting to be a regular. Was it the clown dream again?"

He nodded quietly. He had told Dean that these nightmares had been of clowns chasing him, and his older brother had believed it. In reality the dreams had been of Icky... all of Icky...

The older of the two sighed heavily. "Look... you remember the carnival a few months back, right? When we got back you seemed... different. Sammy, you need to tell me the truth. Are you okay? I mean, did something happen back there?"

Little Sam stared up at his brother silently. He wanted to tell him what had happened... wanted to tell him about the tent, about Icky, about the 'special show,' and about what _really_ happened... But for some reason all that he did was shake his head, denying reality and allowing the nightmare to continue. The older stared at his brother for a moment, as though he had been prepared to interrogate him further when a head poked through the door.

Their father, John.

"Everything alright in here?" he mumbled. It was obvious that he had been asleep, and equally obvious that Sam's sleep-screaming had woke him. Both brothers nodded.

"Everything's fine, dad," the oldest son returned, his eyes still on the younger. "Sam just had another nightmare..."

"What, the one about the clowns?"

Sam nodded, the shame swelling up in him. However, John Winchester simply sighed and glanced down at the watch on his wrist. Six-thirty in the morning... Another sigh escaped his lips.

"No point in me trying to get any more sleep," he mumbled to himself as his eyes raised to the boys once more. "How 'bout some breakfast?"

All thoughts and signs of Sam's dream vanished as both sons nodded quickly. There was rarely ever time for John Winchester to cook, but when he did, it was a definite treat. So the father retreated to the small kitchenette of the motel room while his sons adorned clothing: Sam pulled a sweater on over his pajama top and Dean, who was now 'too old' to wear pajamas and only slept in a pair of sweat pants, donned a t-shirt with the AC/DC emblem splattered across the chest. Finally they joined their father in the main room, both crashing onto the couch. After all, Dean was usually the one to make breakfast and when his dad took on the task, he was more than happy to take advantage of the spare time.

Quickly stealing the remote from his younger brother and punching a few well-chosen buttons, Dean turned the TV on and flipped it to some random early morning sitcom. Several laughs later on Dean's part, not to mention Sam's confusion because he didn't really understand what was so funny, the TV show was over and commercials were rolling by. It was by sheer coincidence that, at this precise moment, Dean would choose to go look in on John's progress with breakfast and ask if he could be of any assistance, and simultaneously would take the TV remote with him for the debated reason that his favorite show was coming on. A coincidence would arise due to the fact that as Sam Winchester watched commercials about beer, cigarettes, some type of fuzzy bear advertising fabric softener (this commercial bringing a 'friggin' evil!' shout from Dean), and dish soap, another commercial would come before the start of the show.

It was none other than Ronald McDonald himself.

At the mere sight of the clown, Sam felt himself tremble. He glared at the television with such hatred and loathing... His arms wrapped tightly around himself, and he scrunched back into the sofa. Why did Ronald McDonald _have_ to be a clown? Better yet, why did Icky have to have been a clown?

The memories came rushing back once more, just as vivid as that hour and a half countless months ago... The gloved hand that forced him down, the legs straddling him, the fiddling with his pants.

He closed his eyes to try to block out the memories, to try to block out the events unfolding...

The music filled his ears. That annoying, tinkling, ever-present carnival music. That music had meant something to him then, but now it only meant fear. The movements of the clown to detain him, and then the sudden smothering of lips over his. Tongue breaking through his weak attempts at keeping it away, exploring every inch of his mouth with hunger, and even teasing at the back of his throat to make him gag.

The child gagged with the very thought, the very memory, of it all...

Then the gentle strokes of his legs, and, oh, Sam new what would come next. And even though it had been months and months ago, Sam could feel the pain shoved into him, kept into him. That feeling of something being squeezed inside him where it didn't fit...

He heard himself whimper and his eyes opened, tears flowing from his orbs of hazel terror and depression. Why him? Why did it have to be him? That was the simplest question of all that he asked God as he gazed at the dancing clown with the Happy Meal... Why had God chosen him to be raped and molested, and then practically left to fend for his own? To calm himself through the tears, to tell himself that it wasn't really as bad as it seemed?

Telling his dad was not an option, nor was telling Dean. How could he? How could he choose to embarrass himself like that? And it wasn't just the embarrassment he felt for himself. It was for them as well... Raped and molested _by a clown_!? What type of hilarity was that!? It was a _clown _for God's sake, not some tall, dark stalker in a mall. Deep inside, though, he knew that they would understand. Knew that they would comfort him... but something else inside him, some sarcastic and pessimistic voice that had lived within him ever since that sunny autumn day, told him that nothing good could come from telling them, and that he should just leave well enough alone.

And in the truth of it all, that same snide little voice had the nerve to blame Dean for this. It told Sammy that if Dean had never tried to win that Metallica poster then Sam would never have been led astray... How could that poster have been more important that him? And then there was that moment when Dean had been right outside the tent. When he had stood there and his younger brother - his only brother - had called to him for help, for rescue. But Dean never came! So what if the carnival music had drowned the small one's screams!? They were brothers for God's sake! Surely all of that pain and fear within young Sam should've broken through some type of telepathic line between Sam and Dean, and would've communicated the fact that he was inside the tent and that he needed help...

But no, now Sam knew... He knew quite well the facts of the world. He couldn't count on anyone but himself... Dean and daddy were not always going to be there to protect him, and he knew that now. Just as he knew that he was the only one who would protect him. The only one...

These were all of the thoughts that streamed through his head as he watched the happy clown on television... All of the thoughts that tortured a child of six about why he was to fear the famous Ronald McDonald. The very thoughts that caused tears to roll down his cheeks while meanwhile other children would sit in front of their own TVs and laugh at this joy-bringer. The thoughts that made him crawl off of the couch and towards the TV. That made him reach out to turn the dial off, but made him freeze inches from the toggle so that he would not be the one to turn it off. That made him so weak and so powerless... And so scared and so alone...

"Hey, Sam, let's eat! Breakfast is gettin' cold!" Dean shoved the last of three plates down onto the small table. John was already seated and flipping through a newspaper looking for another hunt. Yet the youngest did not come when called, which was a rarity because all three Winchesters knew how much Sam adored his father's cooking.

"Sam, let's go!" his brother called again, and this time glanced up at the youngest. His eyes widened slightly, though, at the sight that met them. Sam was knelt down on his knees before the TV, small hand outstretched towards the dial, yet inches away. Tears were visible on his cheeks and fear was sighted in his widened eyes. It was though something on TV had been enough to paralyze him...

Dean shuffled around the table and moved quickly to his younger brother's side. Eyes turned to the television and he saw the fading McDonald's commercial. Swearing under his breath, he turned the TV off with a click of the remote and then knelt down beside his brother. This hadn't been the first time that Ronald McDonald had brought Sam to tears, and it probably wouldn't be the last... After the episode at McDonalds a month ago, where one of those plastic mock-ups of Ronald McDonald sat on a bench outside the fast-food restaurant, Dean had started to fear for Sam's sanity. But now was not the time to mock him (though there had been plenty of times where he had poked fun at his brother's 'clownophobia'). Now was the time to at least try to make him feel a little better...

"Sam, I'm sorry," he said quietly as the younger eyes turned to him, still full of tears. "I wasn't thinking, I should've left the remote so you could turn the channel. I'm sorry."

The evil little voice within Sam told him to yell at Dean, scream that he should be sorry. That it was his fault that Icky had ever even gotten close to Sammy and that it was his fault that he didn't save him! That everything was his fault and why the hell couldn't he just do something right for a change!?

But that was the little voice.

That wasn't Sammy.

"'S alright, Dean," he said quietly, wiping away the tears quickly. "Stupid anyway... it was just a commercial..."

A moment of awkward silence. Dean opened his mouth, prepared to ask Sam what had caused him to suddenly be so afraid of clowns, when John's voice echoed from the table:

"I know that I did not cook these pancakes to let them go cold!" It was obvious that the oldest Winchester had not even turned to seen what had kept his sons from eating.

Before John could say another word both sons were on their feet, walking over to the table and taking seats. Dean ate quickly, practically mimicking his father, who sped through breakfast as well. But little Sam couldn't even taste the food, much less stomach it. After taking only one or two bites and shuffling the now syrupy-muck around on his plate, he mumbled something about not being hungry and quietly left to go back to bed. There was a brief exchange of stare between John and Dean before the younger of the two spoke up, thoughts of the earlier events out of his mind:

"Can I have his pancakes then?"

Sam was sitting on the edge of his well-made bed, hands clasped together, feet dangling off the side but not quite reaching the floor. Trying to forget about the stupid commercial that had caused his little 'clown relapse,' he thought about how he longed to be tall... Taller than Dean, even... So tall that he could one day look down at Dean and call him 'squirt' and 'shorty,' like Dean called him now. It was enough to bring the faintest of smiles to his face.

As he thought of this quaint little dream, John Winchester quietly made his way into the room, sitting down on Dean's bed, which sat only feet away from Sam's. He was quiet at first, and his presence rose the child from his daydreaming. The silence drew on for one minute, then two. But finally it was broken.

"Sam, are you alright?" John's voice was a bit hollow.

"Yeah, dad, I'm fine."

"Anything bad happen that you want to tell me about?"

"Nope."

"You sure?"

And there it was. The golden opportunity. The opportunity for him to say, 'Actually there is something that I want to tell you about, dad, and I've wanted to tell you for a long time, only I've been afraid and I know you always tell us you don't want us to be afraid to talk to you but this is something big... and I just...' And that was where the words faltered in his mind. How did you come out and tell your father that you'd been raped by a clown? Were those the words that you used? Was there a more delicate and simpler way to put it? Or was the blunt factor the actual importance of the matter? Still, he wanted to tell his father...

Oh, how he wanted to tell him. He wanted to confess everything. The wandering off, the meeting Icky, the going back to the tent with him, the naive belief in some 'special show' and the handing over of his belt - which he had honestly thought was part of the show, and then what Icky had done... He wanted to tell him in graphic detail what Icky had done to him. After all he had recounted the story to himself thousands of times in the dead of night when he had actually contemplated telling his brother or father. He knew the words to use, the way to say them, the gestures to make when they were spoken. He knew exactly how he wanted to tell his dad... Knew exactly what he wanted to tell his dad.

The air was in his tiny mouth, words on the tip of his once-violated tongue. He was now certain in his actions, a rock you might say.

"Actually," he breathed, and his father seemed to straighten slightly. John's eyes took in his son's pale face and fidgety hands, and there was no doubt that the boy had his full attention. There was expectancy looming in the air, along with the nervousness of the small boy.

"What is it, Sam?" The words from his father were strong and clear and in that instant Sam's certainty wavered. He glanced into his father's eyes and with that momentary gaze he was certain once more. Certain that the words he so longed to say would never leave his mouth.

"Nothing," the small one replied softly, "it's nothing."


End file.
